


Off Screens and In Betweens

by ohhaypsy



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhaypsy/pseuds/ohhaypsy
Summary: Out of focus moments with Craig and Tweek.A collection of one shots.





	1. South Park is Gay!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay kids, I'm trying something new.
> 
> I can be a touch obsessive about researching canon when writing something. _(*awkwardly shuffles spreadsheets of background appearances out of sight*)_ And so here we go, I'm starting a collection of out of focus Creek moments. There's not going to be any order to them, I'm just writing them as they come up. Lengths will vary, but most of them will be pretty short.
> 
> There's going to be a lot of _Fractured But Whole_ stuff at first.
> 
> I do have a few written already, but other than that, updates will be inconsistent.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

If you’re honest with yourself, it’s because you want to touch his hair.

Jason invites you all over to his place for a _Queer Eye_ marathon; his dad has Tivo and records every episode. So you and Token pull on your matching shirts (because nothing is gayer than matching shirts) and head over. You weren’t expecting Tweek to be there. He’s sitting on the couch with Jason, and you can’t help but scoff at his appearance. He’s trying, but failing miserably. His heather grey satin shirt would look nice if he hadn’t missed a button, and those dark wash jeans were _way_ too baggy. You think he made an attempt to comb his hair, but is quite obviously not using a clarifying shampoo and there’s not even a bit of product in it.

Poor butch little bastard.

Jason’s dad kicks you all out after only four episodes, demanding a father-son spa day. Token manages to get a last minute appointment for a pedicure. And that leaves you with Tweek looking nervously at you, twisting the hem of his shirt (he is going to _ruin_ it) and quite plainly expecting you to bail as well.

“I should, nng, get home, see if I can help in the shop, my dad probably--”

“Sweetie, no.” It’s pity. Pity, and a desire to fix his poor fucking hair, it’d look beautiful with some lowlights and conditioning spray. “I’m doing a makeover on you. I’m not going to let you half ass this; you need to look fabulous as fuck.” Without waiting for a response, you grab his hand and start heading toward the mall, making a mental shopping list of what you’ll need.

It’s a long one.

Clothes are first. You get him the required pink coat and pants and pink triangle shirt, and _gurl_ does it look good on him. After a few more outfits for non-squad wear, it’s off to the beauty supply store. You grab exfoliating face wash and moisturizing cream and a half a dozen other things, but the rest of your monstrous bag is filled with hair products.

He’ll have the most amazing mane after you’re done with him.

He’s sitting on the closed toilet in your bathroom, reading the warnings on the dye with leave-in conditioner in his hair while you’re plucking your eyebrows. “GAH! What if I’m allergic! I’ll die AND I’ll be hideous! They’ll have to do a closed-casket funeral, oh Jesus!”

“Relax, babe, we’ll do a test patch to make sure.” You peer into the mirror to check your eyeliner; maybe you’ll do something darker next time to bring out your eyes more. “I can fix anything that goes wrong; I am the goddamn _Queen_ of makeovers.”

When you’re rinsing out the dye, you keep running your fingers through his hair, making sure you don’t miss one single bit. You were right -- he’s going to look _gorgeous._ His hair is longer than it looks and once it’s dry, you keep combing it with your fingers, explaining what products you’ll use to style it and why. The texture is silky soft, and you admit to being jealous.

But if you’re honest with yourself, which you’re not, you liked the feel of your hands in the tangled snarls, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to google way too many things about beauty care.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	2. Fractured But Whole - The Hundred Hands of Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Style hints if you feel like reading into it, or just standard Super Best Friends

“He’s pretty messed up without you, y’know.” 

You’ve been watching Stan with Kyle, how happy they are to be working together again, the way they’ve forgotten that they’re on the opposite sides of this Civil War. Something gnaws in your gut, and you focus on your phone to ignore it. It’s why you don’t notice him approach you, alone.

Casually, you turn around, pleased by the little bit of height you have over Stan. You fold your arms across the paper with your ‘S’ on it, and specifically don’t think about the fact that Tweek was the one to tape it to your jacket. “I’m not responsible for keeping him sane, _Doucheshed._ He’s the Super Pals’ problem now.”

Stan rolls his eyes in exasperation and annoyance. It’s a common response you get. “That’s not what I mean, dude. He’s not screaming about gnomes or any of that shit. He’s a contributing member of the team. He wrecks with status effects.”

You’re surprised. It’s fucked up that you are, but when you’d created your personas together, Tweek was supposed to be your partner. And here he is, apparently functioning just fine without you.

You weren’t expecting that. “Then what’s the problem? Apparently he doesn’t need me.”

“He misses you, you dick. He’s depressed, and it’s super fucking weird.”

You grit your teeth. You don’t want to hear any of this, and it’s sure as fuck not any of _Stan’s_ business. “He chose his side.”

“So did you.”

“So did Kyle.”

Stan’s face looks like you punched him in the gut, and you kind of wish you had. He scowls at you. “You’re an asshole, Craig.” Finally, he wanders back off to Kyle.

You try to push away the jealousy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Craig is hard to write, you guys. Not to mention he's so _angry_ in FBW.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	3. Fractured But Whole - The Chaos Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More if-you-wanna-see-it-that-way Style hints.

Stan had been acting strange all day. Since last night actually, when he’d skipped out on the Super Pals’ meeting without really giving a reason. At school he’d been tired and distracted, glancing at Kyle more often than usual. Kyle looked back when Stan wasn’t looking. They missed each other more than either of them were willing to admit.

You know how they feel.

It all connects when the New Kid and Professor Chaos infiltrate the base. Toolshed was with the Coon Friends last night. Convinced Butthole to switch sides. Worked with the Human Kite, which is why he’d been so out of sorts all day. Worked with--

You want to ask. You shouldn’t, but you’re going to anyway.

“Did-- did you see him? How was he?”

It’s a quiet moment at the base, everyone out on missions or training or just doing their own thing. You’ll be heading to the senior center with Token and the New Kid soon, but for the moment, it’s downtime. Stan is sitting on the ground on his phone, checking Coonstagram. He doesn’t look at you, just sighs and pockets his phone. He doesn’t have to ask who you’re referring to. “Yeah. He was… fine, I guess. Hard to tell, you know how he is.”

You do know. He always acted like nothing bothered him. Not even you leaving. You shove your hands in the pockets of your coat, but then pull them back out, grunting at the reminder that it -- and the gloves -- belong to _Craig._

You sit down next to Stan, loosely hugging your knees. “He had the New Kid come into the shop while I was working. To get his laptop back. He wouldn’t even come in and talk to me.”

“Shit, dude.” His voice is full of sympathy. Out of all the Freedom Pals, you and Stan have pulled together the most -- Kenny always distances himself from everyone when he’s Mysterion. Everyone on both sides is fighting friends, but Craig is the boy you love, and Stan and Kyle are as close as two people are capable of being. No one quite gets it the way the two of you do. “What did you do?” 

You hug your knees tighter, and can feel your face heating with embarrassment. “I, nng, might have made him give me Stripe back.”

_”Tweek--”_

“Jesus Christ, I know! It was stupid and childish, gah, I _know!”_ Tugging at your hair, you press your forehead into your knees. You can practically feel Stan’s exasperation, and try to ignore the way you know Kenny is eyeballing you. You bring your voice down. “I wanted to, gah, I don’t know, hurt his feelings as much as he hurt mine. And it just, nng, felt nice to have Stripe, as, like, a reminder, you know?”

“I get it. Still pretty low, dude.” He fidgets with his drill for a moment, pretending to check the bit. “You ever think that maybe you hurt his feelings as much as he hurt yours?”

You look up at Stan, who still isn’t looking at you. “W-what do you mean?”

“I think that maybe when Craig asked for his laptop, he was trying to do the same thing you were when you asked for Stripe back.”

The idea is mind-boggling to you. That you could have hurt Craig’s feelings. That he was _capable_ of having his feelings hurt. “M-maybe.”

The counseling referral is heavier in your pocket than a piece of paper has any right to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a good friend, Stan.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	4. Franchise Prequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh crap I'm running low on buffer, I need to write more.

“Come on, Craig! Everyone’s playing superheroes, we should too!”

You sigh. Cartman and those guys are dicks. You’d turned them down to play, and so of course they went to Tweek, knowing he’d try and drag you into it. It was probably Clyde’s idea.

With a groan, you sit up on your bed and look down at where Tweek is sitting on the floor, doodling. Costumes. Goddamnit. “Babe, superheroes are totally gay.”

“You’re gay!” He spits out reflexively, glaring up at you.

You can’t help but smirk at him, not saying anything, just letting him connect the dots. When he does, he blushes and scowls back down at his doodles. “Shut up.”

You’d never say it out loud, but he’s fucking adorable.

“What sort of superhero would you want to be, anyway?” You tell yourself you’re asking out of curiosity, not giving in. You shift to lay on your stomach, peeking over Tweek’s shoulder to see his drawings. For such a twitchy kid, he’s a way better artist than you expected him to be. 

“I want to have weather control. Storms and stuff. No one else has it yet.” He grabs a yellow crayon to color in some lightning bolts on one of the outfits. You don’t really like any of them; like all superhero outfits, they’re impractical. “I can’t think of a good name though, it’s what I’ll always be known as, what if it’s stupid sounding, that’s way too much pressure!”

“Relax, honey, go with something simple.” You slide off your bed and go to your closet, rummaging through some of your older clothes. “For your name and your costume. You don’t want to run around looking like a douchebag like Kyle.”

Tweek laughs at that. It’s nice; you don’t hear him laugh often. Also, the Human Kite’s costume is just fucking lame. “Okay, what do you think my name should be, then?”

“Something cool. Come here.” You pull out one of your old dark blue jackets. You’ve grown out of it, but it should fit Tweek. “Put this on.” You toss it at him and start looking for gloves. Tweek’s hands are always freezing; it’s stupid that he never wears gloves.

“GAH!” He flails when the jacket hits him in the face, then sniffs it momentarily before putting it on. “One of your old jackets? That’s not a costume!” He fumbles with the zipper.

You hand him a pair of old work gloves -- you’d originally gotten them for your Feldspar costume, before finding ones you liked better -- and go to help him zip up the jacket. “Sure it is. You don’t normally wear it, so it’s a costume.” You zip it up, then adjust his collar. “Besides, I’m not wearing some dumb ass costume, and if we’re gonna be a duo, we should match.”

Okay. So maybe you're giving in. 

He fumbles with the gloves, eyes wide as he looks up at you. “We’ll be, nng, a team?”

“Sure, why the fuck not.” You step back, letting him put on his own gloves, and fold your arms across your chest. “I’ll be, I dunno, SuperCraig.”

He smiles at you, then grabs his paper and crayons. “Okay! But you gotta have a symbol at least, all the best superheroes have symbols.” He takes a red crayon, and draws a big ‘S,’ then grabs some tape off your desk and tapes it to the front of your jacket. “There, SuperCraig! And I’ll be, uh, I’ll be, gah! WonderTweek!” Frantically, he goes back to his paper and crayons, drawing his own symbol. A ‘W’ and a ‘T,’ red like your ‘S.’

You try and dissuade him from the headband, but he doesn’t listen.

When the Coon sees your ‘costumes,’ he rolls his eyes. “Great, so you assholes decided to not give a shit together. You guys are so fucking gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave Tweek's costume unaddressed.
> 
> He's so much better these days, you guys.
> 
> Also I'm really enamoured of Artist!Tweek.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	5. Child Abduction is Not Funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the last of the buffer. I probably could have spread these out, but I got overexcited. I'll have more as I continue binge-watching.

_Oh Jesus, this is all my fault._

The words play on repeat in your brain, and by the way the other kids glare at you, they’re thinking the same. You were the one stupid enough to almost get abducted, and now you’re all going to freeze to death out here and they won’t find your bodies until spring when the wolves are gnawing on them and _shit why is it so much colder outside the wall._

You’re falling behind, and no one’s stopping to help you because if they do, then they _really_ won’t make it anywhere before dying and also because _oh yeah, this is all your fucking fault!_

But when you inevitably stumble, there’s a hand grabbing your shoulder to keep you upright.

“Dude, watch your step, the snow’s getting deep.” For some reason, it’s Craig who’s helping you, who is notorious for the amount of fucks he has to give: zero.

“GAH! Jesus, the snow banks are getting worse, I can’t do it, the wolves are going to eat me alive!” You can’t keep track of which death you’re convinced of, but you know at least one of them is going to happen, maybe all of them due to the strange rules that govern South Park.

Craig rolls his eyes at you. “You’re not going to die. Stan and those guys might be dicks, but the rest of us aren’t, no one’s going to leave you behind.” Oh god, you’d said all that shit out loud, maybe everyone heard you and you gave them the idea to leave you to die.

At least Craig doesn’t seem to want to, judging by the way he’s still gripping the shoulder of your shirt, pacing you as you walk. “Besides, some of us scouted ahead; there’s some Mongolians that are gonna let us stay with them.” He doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea of Mongolians hanging out in the mountains of Colorado.

You, however… “Oh, Jesus, what if they, gah! What if they eat us, or, or sell us into slavery!?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do!? Our parents--!”

“Our parents are idiots.” He says it so matter of fact, and, well… he’s not wrong.

As the two of you walk, he starts rustling through his bag, then tosses you a pair of gloves. “Here. Your fingers are gonna fall off.”

“GAH!” You scramble to catch them and fumble to pull them on. They’re a little too big, but holy crap do they help. It takes you a second to remember your manners. “Uh. Thanks, Craig.” He shrugs off the apology, but you appreciate them all the same.

When you reach the Mongolian camp, he still sticks by you, but it turns out that he was right. They don’t murder or eat you, or even joke about selling you into slavery.

It also turns out that Mongolian is a really easy language to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweek's Mongolian is the fucking cutest, I will fight you.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	6. I'm a Little Bit Country

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This spreadsheet (I was not kidding about that btw) is going to be the death of me because I have to keep fighting the urge to note where their _parents_ are now.

You hate Cartman and those guys.

This is hardly breaking news, but every now and again, the hatred inches up just a little higher. Like when the assholes get cornered on TV and can't spout the bullshit they manage when it’s not important, and so get everyone an extra report to do for making Mr. Garrison out to be the incompetent teacher he is.

You fucking _hate_ those guys.

You open up your history book, listening to the spine crack because it’s never been opened before. “Let’s just get this over with.” It’s not like Garrison will know or care if you just make up some shit.

Francis seems to be on your team at least. “Yeah. The Founding Fathers were all about freedom. They fought England for freedom, so they’d be cool with the war in Iraq. The end.”

You nod and Bradley nods in agreement. It’s good enough for you. You don’t know or care what the Founding Fathers would have thought; they're just a bunch of dead old dudes to you, so their opinions don’t really matter.

But of course, Pip has to open his dumb French mouth. “I say, chaps! The War of American Independence was a bit more complicated than that!” Bradley nods again, the fucking traitor. “King George created tax laws on the colonies that were--”

“GAH!” And apparently now it’s Tweek’s turn. You resist the urge to bang your head on the desk, but only just barely. “That doesn’t matter, man! This isn’t a colonial conflict, this is a fight against _fear!”_ If anyone knows about fear, it’d be Tweek. And fucking Bradley is nodding _again,_ like he has any idea what Tweek is talking about. “We’re gonna lose ‘cause you can’t fight _fear!_ There’s no evidence of nuclear weapons but that doesn’t mean that we’re not all gonna die from them!”

Wait, what about nukes?

Tweek is just hitting stride. “It doesn’t even have anything to do with 9/11, the UN isn’t backing it, we’re just trying to depose Saddam Hussein _who wants us all dead, Jesus Christ!_ There’s gonna be a power vacuum ‘cause we just wanna help the Iraqi people, and the Sunnis and the Shiites are gonna--!”

His voice just becomes static in your ears; not because you’re not listening, but because you don’t understand a goddamn word of what he’s saying. He’s ranting about foreign policy in the Clinton years while you’re just trying to remember who the hell John Hancock is. You’re staring with wide eyes while Tweek pulls at his hair and moves further back to George Bush and the Gulf War. Wait, Bush was president before?

At least you can agree on one thing. “--so who _cares_ what the Founding Fathers thought because no matter what we do _we’re all gonna die!”_ Okay, half of one thing.

Francis stares blankly at him. “So… they wouldn’t have wanted us to go to war?”

“GAH!” You startle when he pulls out a chunk of his hair. Tweek stares at the blonde strands in his hand as though they were responsible for 9/11. He drops his head on his book, arms folded across the top of his head as he mutters something about the Pentagon.

You stare at the hair in his hand, wondering how he’s still got so much if he keeps ripping it out like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TRIED TO KEEP ALL OF TWEEK'S RAMBLING AS VAGUE AND NON-POLITICAL AS POSSIBLE oh god i hope i did and that it still makes sense. 
> 
> ~~tweek probably thinks 9/11 was an inside job~~
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


	7. Follow That Egg!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Member when I had a whole bunch of ideas for this? I 'member.
> 
> Butts up right after Marjorine.

It’s been a week.

A week ago, you helped fake Butters’ death. You watched that pig splatter on the ground, got sprayed by viscera. You’re pretty sure your brain shut down; looking back, that had to be the only reason you managed to keep it together long enough to finish the plan. That and how scared you were of the future telling device.

You left before they blew it up, and crawled under your bed when you heard the explosion. _That_ was when you started seeing the pig behind your eyelids.

You haven’t slept in three days. You only emerge out from under your bed to use the bathroom and get coffee. Your parents probably think you’re in school; when the weekend comes, you have to figure out what to do about your shifts in the shop.

“Tweek?”

“AAH!” You hit your head on the underside of your bed frame when you jump. Ignoring the pain, you curl yourself as far back in the corner as you can. Your heart is racing fast enough for you to feel it in your throat. “OH JESUS HELP ME I’M SORRY DON’T KILL ME!”

“Holy shit, Tweek, calm down, it’s just me.” You recognize that nasally voice. What the fuck is Craig doing here is he leading the mob that’s come to burn your house down oh god your parents will be homeless and it’s all your fault what if they go for the shop next, then they’ll--

“Dude. I’m just here to bring you your homework. Are you seriously hiding under your bed?”

Oh Christ, of course you said all of that out loud. “Nng, maybe?”

If he thinks anything of it, he doesn’t say so. Instead, you see his feet move towards your bed, and his body blocks some of the light as he sits down. You watch his hands, rifling through papers. “You didn’t miss anything. Some stupid egg parenting assignment that Garrison used to fight gay marriage, or something. I got paired with Red.”

“Oh god! I couldn’t have handled that, that would have been way too much pressure!” You probably would have dropped your egg in the first five seconds and your partner would have been so pissed and you’d fail and never pass the fourth grade and end up as a hobo in a tinfoil hat. You’re self-aware enough to know you’re not that far off from that destiny already.

Craig’s voice is as deadpan as ever. “Then you picked a good week to bail on school.” He leans down to peer under your bed, and you utter a soft _’gah!’_ when your eyes meet his. “Dude, it smells rank down here. Have you come out at all?”

“I, nng, had to get coffee.” Jesus Christ you’re disgusting. You’re probably marinating in germs and already have a thousand diseases oh god.

Craig stands, probably repulsed by your smell. “Well come on out and take a shower. We’re gonna go get ice cream.”

“W-what?”

“We’re going to get ice cream.” He over enunciates each word, but still doesn’t elaborate, just sits down on your bed.

You flinch as the springs creak. “Why?”

“Because I want ice cream, and you’re here. I’ll buy, but you have to shower first. Don’t make me pull you out from under there and force you into the shower.”

He’d probably do it too. “Okay, Jesus!” With a groan, you worm your way out from under the bed. You can’t remember the last time you ate anything, oh god, you probably would have died of starvation if it wasn’t for Craig, your parents would have wondered why you didn’t show up for your shift, what if they never found your body? You would have died under your bed, rotted away until they finally managed to follow the smell of your--

“Tweek. Shower.”

“Gah! R-right!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of... petered out at the end because I had most of it written back in January, and then came back to it and couldn't remember how I was going to wrap it up originally :/
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


End file.
